


Finally, Something Interesting

by ArtHistory



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Belly Kink, Enemies to Lovers, Force-Feeding, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-14 01:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16030091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtHistory/pseuds/ArtHistory
Summary: The Joker is bored with his life in Gotham. Crimes have lost their spark. Even his relationship with Batman seems...dull.He wishes something new would happen.Something...Interesting





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aris_Silverfin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/gifts).



Perhaps it was the prop’s fault, he thought, looking back on all that had happened.

At least it had been interesting.

It hadn’t meant to be a simple heist - well no, it hadn’t been simple. Nothing the Terror of Gotham did was *simple*. Everything had to be  _ dramatic _ . Robberies had to have  _ flair. _ Muggings had to have  _ spunk _ . Murders had to have  _ panache _ .

It was the only way to keep Batman interested, it seemed.

Joker had pressed the gun to secretary’s temple once again. She screamed, louder this time, a few more tears running down her already eyeliner-stained cheeks. He’d hit the director of the art museum with a pry bar. A number of times. He sat in a bruised, unconscious puddle on the floor. Still alive...kind of. Even killing was getting boring, now. 

His goons, all dressed in their Sunday best, were busy prying - thank you, pry bar! - portraits of Gotham’s historical families off the wall. They were glued into their frames, something about the original owner of the gallery putting a clause in their will that none of the art was ever to be moved ever, hence the glue. 

The Joker leaned further into his gloved fist, which was balled up and pressed into his cheek, his elbow leaning against the back of the chair the secretary was tied to. 

He sighed.

The skeletal villain straightened, letting the gun drop to the floor - it went off, hitting the foot of one of his goons, who fell over, screaming - and began pacing the room. He straightened his perfectly tied, bright green bow tie, then ran a gloved hair through his gelled hair. All dressed up and no hero in sight. Like honestly, why did he bother getting dressed up any more at all?! He smoothed a hand down the lavender jacket of his tuxedo, gloved palm slipping into the hollow of his stomach as he smoothed any potential wrinkles. The long tails barely moved as he strolled along at a leisurely pace, fluttering ever-so-slightly around the evil man’s nonexistent ass. He paused in front of a massive portrait of the Wayne family, taking out his hand mirror and reapplying a thick layer of cherry red lipstick. He smiled, rubbing the stain of it from his teeth. They were a shade yellower than his ivory skin. Damn cigarettes. He lit one, blowing the smoke into the smiling, tiny Bruce Wayne in the painting, dropping the cancer stick as the walked away from the “fine art”. 

He’d gone through all the trouble of storming the most important, most historical museum in the entire city. He’d dropped a madness gas into the security room, causing all the guards to beat each other senseless. He’s poured an entire bottle of champagne over the security terminals, knocking out the alarm system. He’d planned on burying the museum director under a mountain of donations cash, but had gotten over eager and simply bashed him over the head with the pry bar. But his crowning achievement?

Whipped cream cannons aimed at every piece in the gallery!

He’d thought of placing little machines sprayed seltzer, very clown-like, very fun, but had settled on whipped cream after seeing just how much it stuck to the test painting he’d tried it on. Absolutely  _ ruined  _ the piece. Completely. He kicked one, annoyed.

He thought he’d had Batman bursting in just as he’d finished setting up, each of his goons standing by one of the cannons, turning them on every five minutes until...well something! The Joker sighed again. He was uninspired recently. He still had all the flair, all the delightful, shiny violence of his previous escapades, but what was his end goal now? His crime empire was booming. He’d fought with Batman more times than he could count. It was always a delightful dance, they did. Little one-liners, a good brawl, the occasional dramatic exit or thrilling escape from Arkham. But he’d done all that now. A million times, it felt like.

Was there nothing new in Gotham?

And Alexander wept, for their were no worlds left to con-

The door burst open.

Joker turned on his heels, light returning to his eyes as he clasped his hands together, squealing like a teenage boy band fan.

A dark shadow flew through the gallery, until finally appearing in the light.

“Ah ha! Finally decided to join the party, Basty?!” Joker said, letting out a cackle, his goons pausing in their prying art off the walls to look at one another, gulp.

Joker was over the moon. He barely stopped himself from tap dancing in his ivory Venetian loafers. He was here! Finally! It still felt a bit bland, but whenever the black-clad wall of stoic muscle arrived, Joker was at least a little excited. Maybe this whole scheme would turn out to be interesting, or at least cause a little more chaos than the silky-smooth robbery had gone so far.

“Ho, ho! Batman! Not another step! I have Gotham’s most prized, most historic pieces of art, here! It would be a shame to lose so much - oops!” Joker grinned, tapping a button on the side of the cannon with his foot, sending a jet of whipped cream spraying in one, direct line onto a portrait of Gotham’s first mayor. Oh...it was supposed to be more of a...like a big...massive explosion of-

Batman raised an eyebrow.

Joker began to sweat. Fuck! No, stop! The show must go on! Always! He watched the whipped cream slump down the painting, completely ruining it. 

Batman’s eyes widened now.

Joker beamed.

Yes! Haha! Perfect! Excellent!

Joker swung his arms wide, “Not another step, Basty! We’re going to take  _ everything  _ from this cultural marvel, and there’s not one thing you can do about it!” Joker grinned wider, giggling maniacally, “Well, you can. If you want all these priceless works to be DESTROYED!” Joker cackled.

Oh, he’d missed this. So much. Though it still felt...played out. The same. 

He took a few steps, his goons slowly closing in on Batman, the hero looking between the dozen or so men, his deep, rough voice echoing, “You won’t get away with this, Joker!”

Joker only laughed again, “Oh, Batsy! I already have.” He said, sauntering towards the portrait of the Wayne family, leaning down to press the button on the cannon.

And that’s when something very, very different happened.

Joker’s eyes went wide as, in a flash, Batman charged  _ him _ . This...this never happened! Joker stood like a deer in headlights as the black wall of beef charged him, fire in his eyes like Joker had ever seen it. A meaty shoulder body-checked the wispy clown backwards. 

Joker slammed into the painting’s center, his eyes bulging, wind knocked completely out of him. He’d never seen Batman in such a rage out of seemingly nowhere. He was like a raging bull, hurling overdressed goons left and right, obliterating everything in his path. Joker’s gloved hand went to his bony chest, trying to force air back into him, his knobby spine already starting to feel black and blue.

He opened his mouth to say...something. His brain was still reeling, trying to figure out what had set the Batman off. And in that exact moment, the dark behemoth had hurled particularly terrified goon. Said goon flew towards the Joker, slamming into the floor, limbs akimbo.

Hand accidentally slapping the button on the cannon.

Whipped cream jetted out, Batman crying out with raw emotion, reaching a gloved hand pointlessly towards the painting of the Wayne family.

The one Joker was still leaning on.

His mouth open wide.

Joker’s eyes bulged, a squawk muffled deep in his throat as a jet of whipped cream pushed his lips apart even more. His cheeks filled, then bulged, Joker squirming but to breathless to force his bony legs to do anything. He swallowed, the force of the jet of lardy cream too strong for his jaw to overcome. It was eat or die.

So Joker ate.

He gulped down mouthful after mouthful of the endless stream of white, whipped fat. Desperate puffs of air make his nostrils flare as his hands roamed the painting behind him, gripping the overglued, remarkably supportive frame, Thomas, Martha, and tiny Bruce completely obscured, leaving the image facing the Caped Crusader one of a squealing Joker in Wayne Manor. It almost looked like a carnival game, the one where you spray water towards the clown until he’s big enough for you to win a prize.

And if the metaphor held true, Batman would be walking away with the biggest teddy bear the fair had.

Joker whined, gulping desperately, his hollow middle going flat, then round, then huge, whipped cream still shooting into the villain with force enough to keep him pinned, mouth open, wild hands slowing, then stopping, just holding the sides of the frame as he gulped and grew.

His lowest suit buttons burst in tandem, lavender jacked falling open, revealing a straining, lime green vest the same shade as his bowtie. It’s buttons gaped, revealing wide swaths of white button-up before bursting off in kind, the Joker’s belly bowing out before him, beginning to audibly churn.

Joker’s gloved hands gripped tight, his eyes squeezing shut as a muffled moan escaped around the weening jet of cream. His knees were weak, lowest button of his shirt blowing free, then the one above it, then the one above that, revealing the clown’s snow-white, comically overfilled gut. 

His navel was stretched tight, and beginning to go a little pink, the next two button blowing as Joker’s gut sagged forwards, trouser button giving way as the jet finally stopped.

Joker fell to the ground, gasping. An earth-shattering belch rocketed out of him, echoing in the small gallery, causing two of Joker’s goons to stir. The crime lord groaned pathetically, hiccuping looking down at his gut in shock. His gloved hands moved shakily to it, the mass of white flesh packed with white cream framed by the tatters of his jacket, vest, and shirt. Center stage just after curtain call, making its bows.

He felt huge. Sleepy.

Fat.

Joker looked up as a shadow loomed over him. He felt a warm hand rest, then splay across his painfully tight gut. Joker moaned without thinking, cock tenting in his bright-purple briefs. His eyes fluttered open, then bulged.

Was that? Oh gods, it...it couldn’t be!

Batman’s cheeks were pink. His pupils blown wide behind his mask. His breath was coming in short, hot pants as his other hand moved to Joker’s gut, both rubbing,  _ pressing _ into the mound of flesh there. 

Joker cried out again, cock slapping into the bottom of his gut as batman dropped to his knees. Rubbing. Squeezing. Exploring. 

It hurt, then Joker belched right into the hero’s face, and Batman whispered something, pressing his gut again, harder, his dark suit doing nothing to hide the hero’s monstrous cock.

Joker’s belch caught in his throat as police lights flashed in the windows.

By in the second he looked towards them, Batman’s hands were gone. And so was he.

A couple goons shuffled awkwardly towards him, hoisting up their comically round boss and attempting make a speedy, if now remarkably ungraceful, escape.

Joker only smiled. Laughing to himself even though the tightening of his stomach muscles made him wince.

Finally.

Something interesting.


	2. The Ballad of the Goon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Joker's goons stumbles upon a private moment. And in doing so inspires some thoughts.

He was lucky to be getting a cool scar. 

The cut was long, but not as deep as it could have been, the men around him had told him. Other, clown-faced goons, huddling around him like a small pack of penguins in colored suspenders. They’d been given a “black, white, and red all over” color scheme by The Boss, one of them ending up with a broken nose when they’d gone to inform Gotham’s favorite clown they looked a lot like..well...the Penguin’s goons. Said nose had been broken with a bottle, which had been thrown from some distance, luckily only breaking into a few pieces, giving the goon a new, unique scar.

The real issue was that such a fashion concept never should have been brought up, his buddies had said. He should’ve known the boss would be sensitive to critique on any and all robbery outfits. But the man hadn’t responded, his mind still reeling from the encounter. It was barely coherent to do what it was doing -

Inventing a lie.

A simple one. One that worked well with what the other men expected.

Usually the Joker coordinated his goons outfits to a t. What was the point in putting on a show if you weren’t going to have a little style? A little flair? The goon had entered Joker’s private room to bring that up, because the boss had been...distracted lately.

Distracted and hungry.

It seemed like all the boss had done for the past three weeks was sit in his room and stuff his face. The “packages” so many scurrying, rat-like mobsters had been assigned to pick up and deliver - often times taking routes all around the city to avoid giving away the location of the Joker’s lair - often turned out to be massive orders of Thai or Chinese. Towering masses of deep fried wontons or pounds upon pounds of greasy Pad Thai. The boss would keep himself locked away, laughing more maniacally than usual until his goons - ears pressed to door - could hear him groaning, hiccupping with fullness.

They went about their usual tasks of muggings, drug-running, extortion. You know, the light, average stuff that kept the lights on in the massive warehouse. The boss had only sent little notes of extra things he’d wanted done, usually food orders, but his latest fashion choice had forced one goons hand, and so he’d entered the boss’ room and…

Joker had looked... different.

He had been standing in front of a slightly cracked, dirty mirror. His ivory skin was spotless, endless as the goon’s eyes had traced from bare feet, up normally skeletal legs to what should have been a nonexistent ass.

But that wasn’t what the goon had seen.

Joker’s thighs looked..thicker. Healthier, if the goon was being honest. The boss had always been a mad, murderous skeleton, and his legs finally looked less like a stork’s and more like a - the goon blushed to admit it - more like a...a ladies. Long and smooth and a little shapely. Especially once they met...well…

A particularly heart-shaped ass. Fuller than the goon would’ve thought, it looked you could take a nice handful of each cheek, squashed and spilling out of the tiny pair of black and yellow underwear the boss had been wearing.

And that’s, if it hadn’t already, got weird.

The boss was...holding. Squishing. Admiring a bloated, round little pot belly in his pale hands. Grabbing, squeezing, inspecting the mass of creamy vanilla in his fingers, turning side to side to see how it jiggled ever so slightly, turned to a short stack of rolls as he leaned forward.

Joker frowned, then smiled as he straightened. He puffed the now potbelly outwards, giving it a gently *slap*. He seemed almost...proud. Pleased. Like pieces were beginning to come together.

The goon had found his hand drifting to his own, generous gut instinctively, feeling a meaty hand sink into it. Too much beer and not enough jogging, but he hadn’t gotten chunky as fast as the boss had. Was he...trying to get bigger? If he was bulking that was no way to do it. Unless his goal was to get…

“Fat.” He’d said, out loud, his simply mind unable to keep its thoughts inside.

Joker had jumped, cheeks going red as he spun around, fire in his eyes. He’d grabbed and thrown the bottle faster than the goon could even see, his head spinning and nose aching as the Joker kicked out his legs,pinning him to the door frame, a shard of glass at his throat. The goon didn’t even cry out, knowing he was done for, blood pouring down from his aching nose.

Then the boss had paused.

“What did you say?” He’d asked, his tone taking on a rare, interested murmur.

The goon balked, shocked to be alive, not even thinking when he wheezed   
  
“I said ‘fat’ boss. Y...you’re looking a little fat.”

His watery eyes fluttered open, immediately seeing that wide, wild...darkly pleased smile.

The Joker had leaned back, puffing out his gut even more, the goon only now realizing that it was pressed against - no - being compared to his own.

“I am getting fat...aren’t I?” Joker had nearly purred, running his hand empty hand over his own, overfed middle.

“Y...yeah” The goon had stammered, wiping at his face, paling as it returned slick with blood.

Joker grinned impossibly wider, “Get the boys. We’re going out tonight.” He said, pinching the lowest lip of his chunky middle, squeezing the extra bit of flesh there. Then that same, pale hand was on the goon’s lower gut, grabbing a massive handful of lard, squeezing roughly.

“How did you do it, hm? Turn into...this.” Joker said, his voice low. Disgusted? Fascinated? The goon couldn’t tell. He was a mess of pain, confusion, fear, and the way Joker’s hands now roamed his gut. Prodding. Squishing.

The goon forced those thoughts out, keeping his mind on the pain, not his mostly-nude boss and, endlessly pale skin...his soft hands...his round, full ass...

“Muffin” Joker had cooed, the cheerful little nickname making the goon’s veins turn to ice, simultaneously forcing heat to his cheeks. The goon nodded hurriedly, then squeaked, the shard once again against his throat., “I want the Armani suit tonight. The neon lavender one.”

The goon’s gulped, Adam’s apple kissing the shard as it bobbed anxiously in his throat. He, and every other member of the Joker’s gang, distinctly remembered that suit. It had been ordered a hair too small, making the clown look tiny, all elbows and knees, the cloth so tight around his thin form. The tailor had been boiled alive in a vat of dye, his neon lavender body set up as a mannequin in his store. Why would the boss want to wear that? Was this an excuse to kill him? If he wanted one, busting in on Joker in his underwear should’ve sufficed.

“And muuuufffin” Joker cooed again, almost sing-song, pressing the shard closer against the man’s throat, the goon keeping himself from swallowing lest he be carved open.

“If you get any blood on my suit, you’ll wish I killed you in here.” 

Joker giggled, leaning back, smile still in place. He tapped the back of his hand against the goon’s gut, watching it jiggle.

“And I want the name of that beer you’re always sucking down. No, just get me a case of it.” Joker added, humming as he moved back in front of his mirror, “Just leave them in front of the door. I’ll take it from there.” Joker sighed, eyes locked back onto his reflection, the goon near-running from the room.

The goon felt, deep in his gut, that telling the other guys the truth would not be good. So he’d lied, told them something about...fashion.

What could he have even said?

That the boss had been so... That he’d looked so... That boss’ hands had felt so...

“Soft” The goon breathed, almost dreamy, grinning stupidly as the rest of the men cleaned him up, one nodding that yeah, the rag they were wiping blood of with was pretty soft, that it was good his nose could still feel anything...


End file.
